Every Soldier Has A Past, And Every Sociopath Has A Future
by the-science-of-evidence
Summary: Everyone has always begged for a strain of miracle that has always been there, the concealed blessing that was there since the beginning… only to be pushed away by their spectacular ignorance and evident denial. Their intended fate, though narrowed, twisted, bound, pulled apart, broken, shattered into hopeless fragments, they came out scathed yet faultless-. teen!lock to current AU
1. Prologue: Every Soldier Has A Past, A

**[Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**[Pairing: Johnlock**

**[Notes: This came up to me while listening to 'Heaven By Your Side' by A1  
Thanks to my dearly beloved classmate, friend, and beta-reader: Jannice Sace - visit her fictionpress =))  
Please bear with me.**

* * *

**|Prologue| **+Every **Soldier** Has A Past, And Every **Sociopath** Has A Future+

* * *

Silence ensued amidst the blanket of darkness, the sweetest harmony ever written unto mankind's symphonies… The sky's canvas was lit with the bright chandelier of stars, the luminescence of the moonlit sky; and beneath, glasz irises locked upon sapphire.

Peace lingered along every second that conceded. It was a strain of miracle that has always been there, the concealed blessing that was there since the beginning… only to be pushed away by their spectacular ignorance and evident denial. Their intended fate, though narrowed, twisted, bound, pulled apart, broken, shattered into hopeless fragments, they came out scathed yet faultless. It was… _perfect_.

Helplessly so…

Two infamous figures swayed synchronous in motion, timed with the faint melody from the main house. Their breaths glided across their faces, inches the only thing that separated them. Hands interlaced around their significant other's waists, chest and hips sharing ephemeral touches along their measured movements…

"What?" the brunette whispered, sincere curiosity lacing the word as his mouth formed a small smile.

The blond raised a brow in return, _"What?"_

A soft chuckle escaped the former's lips, "You've got questions…" he responded, his matchlessly tantalizing baritone voice soft as velvet, smooth as silk.

"Always, Sherlock." the latter replied rolling his eyes in sarcasm.

A wave of short laughter rushed through them, pushing them through a fit of giggles—both utterly enjoying their privacy under the romantic confines of the garden gazebo's atmosphere to the fullest… The sweet sound ended as lips found each other, both exchanging chaste kisses; hands followed suit, carding themselves in their partner's tresses. Forgetting the heavy burdens of reality and escaping into their sanctuary they fabricated around themselves, _only_ for themselves. It ended as soon as it began; still, it left them both a bit off balanced and disheveled in contrast to their prior appearance, a shy blush also crept its way upon their cheeks trying to prove a well-known point.

The taller male leaned down ever so slightly, his lips centimeters away from the latter's ears, "Well, John?" Sherlock whispered, his breath made John shudder… always.

"The question…" John began, lost along his own thoughts—Sherlock stifled a chuckled with a small cough—but it didn't save him from his lover's glare, "is along the lines of the past…"

"Care to elaborate?" The detective questioned as he moved away, staring deeply into his lover's eyes.

"'Who would I be right now if I hadn't met this _spectacularly ignorant_ man?'…" the doctor admitted teasingly, the former merely stared at him in disbelief, "…and some other things along that line."

"I could imagine a scenario or two," Sherlock replied without skipping a beat, his head already a thousand calculating meters away, "You'd currently be married to some pointlessly boring woman right after retiring from your military service, both of you would produce around two to three kids seeing how capable Dr. Watson is of doing so," the doctor scoffed at the detective's _palpable _insinuation, "you'd end up healthily living off as some tedious full time doctor while having _most _of the time of your life, never regretting wedding the dull woman. Whereas, _I, _at that point, would've died of overdose and would be rotting six feet below the ground." He stated everything in his matter-of-factly tone, "Both of which, I would truly _hate_ to have happen."

"I think," John retaliated thoughtfully, "I would still be suffering from my limp and would be living off on nothing but my half-assed army pension that could _never _afford London, and live in nothing but depression and loneliness." Sherlock was about to rebuke his statement about how improbable that would be but John cut him off with a huff, "And maybe, sooner or later, I would die and we'd meet in the afterlife."

The detective opened his mouth to speak but the doctor kissed him instead, "Do _not_ even think about—"

It was Sherlock's turn to cut him off, "It may not be the finest story ever printed," the detective said, "but it would be, in your words, incandescently _perfect_."

"I love you…" John said with a smile, his azure eyes reflecting all his emotions, "…so damn much."

"I love you too…" the words stumbled out the detectives' mouth whilst rolling his eyes, but his words were soft and heartfelt—_that_, John knew.

They kissed for the nth time that day, both acting like love sick teens… Suddenly, John groaned and moved away from the said detective, not in repulsion or disgust. It was more of… embarrassment, Sherlock deduced, embarrassment from their previous recollections.

Their first confession—it was almost like this one.

The younger male couldn't suppress the chuckle that erupted from the back of his throat only to get painfully elbowed by the annoyed doctor, "Shut up."

* * *

**To Be Continued.**


	2. Chapter One: The World Needs More Than

**[Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**[Pairing: Johnlock**

**[Notes: This came up to me while listening to 'Heaven By Your Side' by A1  
Thanks to my dearly beloved classmate, friend, and beta-reader: Jannice Sace - visit her fictionpress. Thankies dude ^_^  
Please bear with me.**

* * *

**|Chapter One| **+The World Needs More Than Love At First Sight+

* * *

+::_::_::_::_::+

Twenty years ago

+::_::_::_::_::+

Dull. Boring. Tedious.

All words synonymous to each other; break all other words found in reality—it'll likely lead you to any one of them. Well, in the world of the most notorious yet brilliant kid in school that is.

Sherlock Holmes, a sixteen year old with a reputation just as complicated as his name. His name usually used in conjunction to being: psychopathic, freakish, abnormal, weirdo, loner, and others that cannot ever be written publicly. Accelerated twice for perfecting his seniors' exams at his freshman year. Currently the youngest and the most despised undergraduate in Junior High—by both students and teachers, and yet he possesses the top rank of the whole batch… Not that he finds the idea exemplary; of course, everything to him is, after all, _transport_.

"Hey, Freak Show," the voices echo from behind as the said teen exits the locker area in his uniform black swimming trunks, it just so happened to be slightly loose around the legs compared to the others (lacking prominent muscles and all that). A midnight blue towel remained splayed across his shoulders, covering his arms and back causing his pale skin to lighten even more against the shady color of his current wear, "Faggot! Over here!" they continued to call out.

Their childish and unprincipled jeers were nothing to his ears; he walked passively across the poolside and sat on one of the vacant sides of the bleachers tolerantly waiting for their PE Swimming Instructor _for once_, he cannot bear to miss another class or he'd have to repeat the whole thing—and heaven forbid that. His crossed his legs as his body was fighting off the shiver from the lack of clothing—oh, how he hates Physical Ed. He tugged on his towel with a silent groan trying to cover himself up as much as possible, and fails quite miserably at his half-hearted attempts. The group of seven morons made their way towards him, name calling forever upon their lips…

"Trying to hide your hickies there, you fag slut?" Owen, the blonde heartthrob rugby captain, spat crossing his arms over his well-toned chest.

Derek, the dimmest guy in town, smirked, "Had a wank, did ya faggot?" He gestured indecently over his front, and it's obvious that's the _only_ thing he actually thinks, "Who's cock did you imagine, bitch?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at them, and eyes them all in a matter of seconds. He feels immeasurably repulsed by these people, their stupidity and lack of originality.

"Ah, you're gonna _come_ at us now, slut?" Matt, a closet-gay, spat out, his brown eyes fucking every inch of Sherlock's frail stance.

The teen stands, his height a bit taller than most of their members, "Derek, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of your whole group, and by the looks of it, it already lowers by the second—you're really not aiding the process," He said with a smirk that played dreadfully along the contour of his lips, "Owen, why not admit that you're pedophilic and you still keep that hideous Unicorn plushie your Mom gave you when you were seven… ah, no… You're mom gave it to you quite recently. In fact, you can't sleep without it. Poor you."

"Oh, shut up you—" Owen spat out but was effortlessly stopped by Sherlock with a wave of his hand.

"I'm almost at the bottom of my list," he retorted sternly, "and you, Matthew, a closet gay… since what, 14? Answers to the reason why you joined rugby. My, you even got an obsession with the dimwit over there… and are those rope burns around your wrist." Sherlock noticed the sudden flinch of the opponent's hand, "Interesting. A submissive—"

"Shut up, you're just making this all up!" Matt hissed at him, his fists balling at his sides. He walked towards Sherlock pointing at his face despite the 3 centimeters that towered over the player, "Dare to _speak_ another word and I _will_ drown you, son of a bitch."

"Fag," Sherlock said with a smile.

The teen could see something spark underneath the former's eyes; it was fury and mortification—thus proving his point. Sherlock couldn't help but feel smug at getting it right, but still… he was thrown into the deep end of pool. His back hitting the water's surface agonizingly, he was instantaneously swallowed by the water. The water's natural suction pulled him through until he reached the bottom, his breath was knocked away by the sudden change in pressure and his head slammed against the tiles first rather than his body. His brain, despite the screams of immediate need of oxygen, was calculating the effects that were currently happening around him… the change in pressure, force, rate, and reaction time… Until black spots came into view as his body grew numb.

Swimming was never his forte; he found no relevance in it what-so-ever. He shut his eyes and hated cursed his bodily instincts for trashing around, and on spur of moment, an arm circled around his shoulders and Sherlock's eyes shot open, his view blocked by some blond male came into view… the pool's obscure transparency along with the tinge of chlorine was starting to hurt the latter's eyes. He was pushed up like some damsel in distress in some clichéd story, as the blond also got back up.

Both of them resurfaced, Sherlock gasping for air as he grabbed the pebbled edge of the pool trying to catch his breath between coughing out pool water. His chest heaved with every breath; his hair seemed to lengthen from the weight of the water, and his body shivering ever-so-lightly… He heard another person get out of the water, he looked up and saw that it was his, what do they name these things again, _savior _was it?

"You okay?" the stranger questioned, his hand sympathetically reaching out towards the brunette.

Sherlock unintentionally glared at the person; moreover, he glared at the person's _sympathy. _In a matter of seconds, he already had the person deduced… Rugby member since middle school, Junior honor student, around 18years old, typical student, goody-two-shoes, teacher's pet and a civil student servant… Sadly, his name was still unknown to Sherlock. He looked around, seems like the coach had everyone leave—as expected.

If something goes wrong with the psychopath—dismiss class and leave vicinity immediately.

Reaching up, Sherlock was about to push the hand away, since his throat wasn't being cooperative, but the other grabbed his hand in misunderstanding pulling him up. Sherlock, being scrawny as he is, was easily pulled out of the pool—the _victim_ gave out a husky yelp in surprise.

He ended up kneeling on the ground since the stranger lacked the height to evenly pull him out, "Thanks…" Sherlock muttered only low enough for the former to hear.

The other nodded and turned to the group, "You guys… apologize."

"Hell no," Matt growled only to be glowered by John, "Heck no, John. I won't grovel for forgiveness from that Freak."

Sherlock simply ran his fingers through his hair trying to remove as much water as possible; he disregarded everyone—as usual.

"I'm not asking you to—" John sighed giving up, "just head on to practice."

Owen glared at him then at Sherlock, "Be thankful you're part of us, Johnny boy."

This John person glared at the Morons' back. After they were out of earshot, John turned to Sherlock who was already walking towards his drenched towel, "I apologize," John called out to the infamous kid, "for their actions."

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes dully staring into a kid as he picked up his towel, "Don't expect anything in return," he replied, his voice still rough. He walked towards the shower areas, completely ignoring the existence of the other.

"I'm John Watson." The teen called out following him, "You're Sherlock Holmes, right?"

The top student rolled his eyes, "Don't act dumb," he twisted his towel; water seeped out, "it's annoying."

"Ah, well…" John cleared his throat, "Do you want to have lunch together?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed towards the blond as he entered the locker room. He got his stuffs from his locker and went to his own cubicle and shutting the door in the process. Leaving a lone John Watson in the process… with a sigh, the blond did the same.

John finished up expecting him to be alone as he got out; he switched off the lights of the locker area and walked out. Much to his surprise, there was a male, seated in one of the bleachers closest to the exit; he was fiddling with his phone.

"You waited." John said in surprise. His hair was a bit wet considering he wasn't that intent on fixing himself up since he was downright annoyed at the said person's attitude. He pitied the guy—always alone wherever he went. Much like himself, he thought bitterly. Yet the other handles it well enough to even choose to be alone.

Sherlock gave him the _isn't-it-obvious _look; he then shoved his phone into his jacket's pocket and crossed his ebony sling bag over him as he stood, "We've wasted enough time, John. Shall we go?"

"Uh, yeah…" John replied dashing towards the famous psychopath, the trip to the canteen was a bit far compared to the other available vicinities… so the walk was a bit awkward. People throwing them knowing stares and glances, it made John's nerves tense yet his façade was just there.

"You really don't have to do this," Sherlock muttered, enough for only John to hear.

"What?" John replied his eyebrows furring, "What do you mean?"

"This act of yours," he replied, "you could just walk away. You're not really the type to simply play along after all."

John replied, his eyebrows furrowing even more, "What do you mean?"

Sherlock stopped short and John went on ahead a few steps, only to turn back at the third, "I know that you have a brother who's preceded by an exceptional status of being a habitual drunker, and a Dad who is a soldier who only goes home once in every 6 months. You're annoyed at your brother for being unaware of things, but you respect your father for being the breadwinner of your family. Still, you hate the fact that your Dad's become a womanizer right after your mother's sudden death, as it seems that you've already cope, probable cause would be a deteriorating illness that left her brain dead for over a week—that was probably the only way to show you his true colors, or a way of coping up from his dead wife. Either of the two, I don't really care. You, on the other hand, have plans on having a clean and archetypal future of being a doctor… and judging by your respect for your country and your dad, you wish to be an _army_ doctor." John merely looked at him wide eyed, "Hmm… Typical. Idealistic. And you felt that responsibility when you saw I was drowning, you never felt the need to save me but the need to prove yourself that you _can _indeed save someone." Sherlock smirked, "Am I wrong?"

John's face was absolutely readable; Sherlock could almost hear the annoyance whirring out from his thoughts. "You…" the shorter male started with a breath, and then stopped—inwardly reasoning yet again on what to say, "How did you know that?"

Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation as he gestured towards the latter's stand, "I didn't _know_, I saw." He replied, "Your stance and discipline already exhibits that someone pronounced to you works for the military, someone who was able to influence their training directly in accountable moments. 'Directly influenced' then would more likely be a family member—older brother is possible, but your actions speak from an older man's education with deep-rooted traditions, a bit too old to be a brother. So, father it is. As for your brother, it was clearly splayed across your bag in permanent marker," Sherlock eyed his backpack with a glance.

_HARRY WATSON xoxo_

"Harry Watson." John stated in understanding seeing the handwriting below.

Sherlock nodded and continued without missing a beat, "A worn, hand-me-down. The handwriting suggests that it was written by a girl, and those hugs and kisses, so girlfriend. An _ex_-girlfriend's gift. Seeing that it has stains, it was never cherished nor proved to be of sentiment to the man, but their relationship lasted longer than most. Still—stains from what. A lot of possibilities, but seeing the unmistakable discoloration it would likably be acid based, so soda or alcohol."

John glared at him, uncaring of the pressing fact that it was almost end of lunch time. He pursued another question, "How could you possibly know about my mother?"

"A shot in the dark," Sherlock stated with a tricky grin, "I believe that a prayer circle was made last year for... something Watson. Ah, yes, for Lily Watson's death. I happen to come across it once or twice in effort to distinguish the cause of death—as something to keep me distracted. And seeing as you are now, it fits the puzzle. Your mother was already suffering from Emphysema quite a few years back, and last year she ended up brain dead from the late therapy sessions from seven months prior. You all knew this was going to happen, and you being the youngest prepared yourself more than the others, your individualistic streak and independence… and moves us to the pressing idea of you wanting to become a doctor."

The blond was about to speak on how amazing and extraordinary that was but an all too feminine voice called out from behind, "Johnny,"

Sherlock peered over the shorter man seeing the not-really-popular-but-still-popular girl group. John groaned to himself before turning, "Kayte… hi," He cleared his throat, "can we just—"

The female make-up turned human pushed John away from the freak, "Please stay away from my boyfriend," she spat out with a smirk, "I don't want any rumors of _him_ being a freak like you."

John looks positively crossed, "Kay—" before he could even speak he was already cornered by the female herself, was pushed towards the lockers senselessly, and was being kissed despite all that he could feel was the shame on himself towards Sherlock and displeasure towards the woman. All eyes were on them, John's eyes remained on Sherlock's… Sherlock seemed unquestionably bored.

He pushed Kayte frantically, the other spectators voicing out their shock but Sherlock remained indifferent. He was about to speak when the former spoke first, "How quaint." The atmosphere around them dropped a few degrees; his voice was cold and sharp. With that, he walked away…

John swallowed licking his lips, his body ran on impulse trying to catch up with his new found acquaintance but he was pulled by the sleeve. He glared at the girl, "What was that for?" he whispered, not wanting the attention. Unfortunately, it wasn't working.

"The question is: why were you with _that_?" Kayte said angrily with her polished nails pointing at Sherlock's back, "The rugby members are already grilling me from your actions earlier—now you're being all chummy with the freak?"

John's glare intensified, "Don't call him that."

"Oh, what now, John?" the girl rolled her eyes, her friends in action trying to calm her down by fanning her uselessly with their hands, "Just so you know, you're _my _boyfriend."

"Was." He simply stated, but the word was a spoken taboo, "I _was _your boyfriend."

The only noise that sounded after the display was a loud slap, as expected. Then she all said was: "You'll seriously pay for this."

+::_::_::_::_::+

"Bloody nails…" John groaned as he placed disinfectant along the long scratch marring his cheek, it was just as painful as a child's paper cut. Luckily, there was no one to witness him wincing over trying to place the band aid on the petty wound.

"Shall I help you with that?" The familiar voice resounded through the empty confines of the infirmary.

John turned to the person with a smile, "It's already done." Out of the blue, a plastic container hit him in the face—spot on to his recent injury. He glared at Sherlock as he caught the container before it fell, "What the hell, Sherlock?"

The said person was already leaning on the desk, with an open book before him. Only then did he call out, "You're welcome."

John groaned, somehow regretting some things half-heartedly, he looked at the container with an unbecoming scribble over it. He squinted trying to understand… oh, it was a 'Thank You'. He openly smiled and decided that there was nothing to regret. He glanced at Sherlock and opened it; it was his favorite strawberry jam sandwich from the cafeteria—two of them… Now that he thinks about it, not once did he catch sight of Sherlock in the cafeteria—in all his life in St. Benedict.

"Thanks…" John said as he got the sandwich out of the container, the only reply he got was a grunt of approval. This classic setting was undeniably awkward for him, but it was the good kind of awkward. He ate in silence staring plainly at Sherlock, whose only focus appears to be the absolutely thick Chemistry book.

"You've got questions…" Sherlock spoke, eyes trained on his book.

"Yeah. Lots, actually," John replied, a bit shocked at the abrupt conversation, "aren't you going to eat?"

"Irrelevant. Digestion slows me down," he replied quickly, "and I need to think—everything else is just transport. Next."

"Ah…" John cleared his throat trying to get by the first half-eaten sandwich, "So… it's all true, then?"

"Specify."

"I mean… you considering everything is just transport," John said trying to remember rumors about Sherlock's unethical reputation, the man's already here, so why not, "And also you're psychopathic…" he stopped as Sherlock looked up from his book to stare at him.

"To answer the first, yes. And for the second, I'm not a psychopath; I'm a high-functioning sociopath—get your research right."

"Ah…" John swallowed his sandwich and begins to pick at the other one, "You still need to eat, though. You might want to consider, uh… _refueling_."

"Hmm…" Sherlock muttered returning to his book, still uninterested at the idea.

Silence covers them again; John's mind swarms over itself for a topic—anything!

"So… do you have a girlfriend," He gazes away as Sherlock looks up with calculating eyes—that was stupid, "who feeds you up then? I don't really see you at the canteen… so…" he locks eyes with Sherlock again—it seemed natural. There was no spark, no awkward staring… it was so _normal._

"You deduced that because I don't go to the cafeteria," Sherlock muttered in incredulity, "As I said earlier, everything is transport. And above that… Is that what girlfriends do, feed you up?"

John rolled his eyes, "Well, uh... no," He sighed, "so, no girlfriend?"

Sherlock interlaces his fingers propping his face over his knuckles, "No, not really my area."

"Mm…" The blond swallowed suddenly conscious of his eating. He coughed, "Ah… right, so… boyfriend then?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow sharply, no reply given.

"Well, I mean… ahem," the latter was earnestly uncomfortable at his own words, "Er… which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine." The former spoke quickly and bladed.

John runs his tongue along his teeth, "No boyfriend then?"

"No," he replied leaving the topic to die at his lips.

"Okay." John nodded, "You're unattached… like me. Good."

Sherlock stared at him suspicion lurking along his gaze, John's words repeating in his head. He remembered the sudden open break-up between this person before him and what's-her-name. Sherlock breathed out as he shut his book, "John, I would want you to understand that I consider myself married to my studies. And while I am indeed flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any _kind_ of—"

John stares at him wide eyed and interrupts him, "No," his brows cross and looks around and back to Sherlock, "God, no… I wasn't asking you out. No."

Looking at him for an undecided moment, Sherlock nods opening his book again.

"I'm just saying it's fine… it's all fine." John mutters as an explanation, his confusion of the events are starting to get the better of him as he tries to search for the right word, "And whatever boat you… I'm just gonna shut up now."

"I think that is for the best." Sherlock replied cutting off the conversation. For real.

And it's now safe to say, that this might be the most horrifying resolution ever made by these two—but without doubt, the greatest choice.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	3. Chapter Two: A New Beginning

**[Title: +Every ****Soldier** Has A Past, And Every **Sociopath** Has A Future+

**[Pairing: JohnLock**

**[Other notes: AU; Please Read And Review ^_^**

**[Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.**

* * *

**|Chapter Two| **+A New Beginning Is Where All Things Change+

* * *

Another dreary day, for John… Unknown to him, he actually used his own bag and left Harry's old one remembering that he wasn't able to correct Sherlock about that. Yesterday though, oddly enough, he spent the whole day trailing around Sherlock's side and ended up using the laboratory with him and his fanatical experiments until 9 in the evening. But he was never fed up, never tired. He was aggravated on many times though, by Sherlock's lack of emotion and common sense. It somehow got to the point of him raising his voice (not _yelling_) at Sherlock for being excited for new murders—yet the other seemed to be unmoved by this. They seemed to always be at each other's throats with knives, but they were plastic knives… An amusing fact John pointed out yesterday as he gave up fighting.

He stared at the empty and devastated bunk of his older roommate, Mike, and rolled his eyes, he was a good guy, just a bit of a klutz every now and then. Back to Sherlock, one of the things he cannot deny is that, he is somehow… excited. For today. He considered that being with Sherlock predestined innovative effects. It was quite thrilling. He picked up his backpack and nodded to himself.

Walking out of his dorm room with a sigh, he shut the door behind him—nothing's changed… for now.

+::_::_::_::_::+

Sherlock clenched his teeth as soon as he walked out of his dorm; he heard hushed laughter from students who passed innocently; in spite of it, he didn't really care. His glasz eyes following their movements as he noticed photoshopped pictures of him, his slender fingers grabbed every print out crumpling them as he dumped them in his bag.

Then there was one letter that struck him for a short second,

_STAY AWAY FROM JOHN WATSON._

It was something he expected… a price he knew he had to pay for letting another in. Regrettably, he knew that it wasn't him who had to endure all this—to be frank, he didn't care. People could ruin his name, taint his being, and shove him up the dumpster naked for the entire world to see. **He. Wouldn't. Give. A. Fuck.** Not because he was incompetent of doing so, or he was merely frightened of what could happen—no. He could murder everyone else who didn't pass his standards—meaning he could kill everyone in school (except for a few countable people) and no one would know who did it, they would have no proof of his crime… Basically, the answer is because it would definitely be a waste of his time dealing with society's finest ways of social classes.

But, this time, it was different. Right now, it was him they were hostile against—someone else will get affected by all this, sooner or later. Someone _else_. Not that he cared; it was because he doesn't _care_. Period.

But…

He hates this unfamiliar feeling. The feeling that the person who would suffer was that someone who helped him, who tried to talk to him… He should've left while he had the option. But he didn't. And he didn't know why. And _it _vexed him. To no end.

_"John," _he thought blandly.

It was John who had to suffer. John, who is _normal_ and gentle enough to befriend the whole student body—especially Sherlock, was the one who had to take the blow. And that thought somehow crossed Sherlock.

"Dammit…" Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

+::_::_::_::_::+

Worse part of being in the same school no matter how big it is: You Can't Run. John knew that for a long time, Sherlock knew that longer.

John was alone the whole day, not really something to alert the media about… It simply happens once in a while, times when he'd keep his distance from people and also Mike was out for an early orientation for St. Barts—A Uni for medicine... He hasn't seen Sherlock today, not that it surprised him or whatever thing on that account—

"You?" the cafeteria lady spoke out, she had a bright smile, a bit round but kind and sweet. She was the type that you'd usually have a dear friendship with but not really the lover sort.

"Uh…" John stared at the variety of food finding everything unappetizing—even strawberry jam. His thoughts drifted away fearing that Sherlock would avoid him like nothing happened, he knew that the guy was certainly unpleasant, detached, and insensible. But Sherlock _liked_ being with someone, no matter how hard he tries to act indifferent—his eyes were brighter when talked too and not reprimanded by everything he is.

"Hm?" she voiced out again breaking him out of his reverie.

John panicked, "Uh, yeah… sorry," he ran his fingers through his hair, "just tea for me. Thanks."

She eyed him understandingly and got him tea, "Here ya' go." She pushed the tea towards him, and as John was about to fish out his bills from his wallet, she mouthed slyly with a wink, "Don't worry, it's on me."

John passed her a smile and a thank you as he got the warm tea… Somewhere in his mind, he thought that seeing a man dazed with a cut along the face would make anyone concerned.

He walked around campus, tea in hand, indisputably bored as ever. Listlessly walking around, he managed to climb up three sets of staircases, covering two hallways, entering five doors; until he finally faced the vacant rows of recently renovated rooms—the smell of paint faint in the air, silence reverberating along the halls, and natural light entering from glassless windows…

+::_::_::_::_::+

Sherlock heard familiar footsteps echo in his refuge, his mind palace—or so he calls it. He stands up silently and walks out the room only to catch a blond male walking away, he suddenly felt the strange ambiance of an imperceptible pull—his voice escapes him.

"John?" he spoke out before actually realizing it. He cursed himself for doing so, but it was too late to play hide and seek. He held on to his perfect façade of indifference, and waited for the blond to react.

The blond turned, "Oh, Sherlock…" John said sighting the almost six footer male, "You… why are you here?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned against the doorless doorframe, "I believe it is you who has to answer that question, _Watson_."

He then looked at Sherlock decisively, "I do believe I'm older than you, _Holmes_."

"Age is just a figure that society made to count the years that they've lived," The latter defended, "being older proves nothing."

John was about to argue when he saw Sherlock's skin below the folded sleeves of his uniform, black and blue bruises matting the younger's forearms leading up the elbows and underneath the sleeves, he walked over in less than five strides and grabbed the latter's wrist before he could even complain, "What happened here?" John questioned in distress while he inspects the bruises forming, "Who did this?"

The victim eyed John curiously letting his hand be twisted and turned cautiously in the other's assessment without complaint, he would've simply pulled away from someone else's touch… But John doesn't seem to fit into that category, or any of the categories he's ever made. John's hands were light despite the blond's evident displeasure; it trailed over his skin in a delicate caress. Short-lived yet thoughtful. "You're crossed." The brunette stated.

"A great deduction, Sherlock," He snapped in return still not letting go of the wrist, "now answer the question."

"Why?" Sherlock asked silently.

John looked up in the latter's eyes, "Why what?"

The brunette's curiosity intensified, staring at the smaller man with the same question, "Why would you be crossed? You're not the one who's beaten."

With that, the older teen strike up with a considerate smile, "You're my friend. And you're hurt." John confirmed cleanly, "It's not really something to be happy about."

"It happened last week, dismissal. I was caught late in the Science lab, and the four seniors were also overstaying in the courtyard." Sherlock began, his gaze fixedly into John's eyes trying to find out every emotion that played within them, "They were drunk and got into a row, then they saw me headed for the dorms. Wrong time, wrong place. They emptied their dispute on me—end of story."

John's eyes flitted from different emotions, ranging from compassion, to accepting, to irritation, to lividness, and lastly, back to pity. He spoke after a few seconds, "Didn't you report it?"

Sherlock pulled his hand away from John and brought down his sleeves, "Unnecessary," he smirked, "it's not like it was a completely one-sided fight."

The blond looked at him charily, "What do you mean?"

A grin broke out of the other's face, "I broke one's arm, the other got a cigarette burn on his neck, and the other two had a slight head concussion." He gestured his arms wildly, "Compared to those, this is completely minor."

"How'd you do it?" The blond spoke in astonishment.

"They were drunk, John." Sherlock denoted dully, "All with quite lethargic and predictable movements."

John nodded, "But we still need to get those covered."

"They're not really hurting anymore." The brunette muttered rubbing his wrist nonchalantly, he then straightened himself, "Lunch's going to end in a few minutes. You'd better get back and finish that tea—which I highly doubt would taste good cold."

"Yeah, thanks for the tip." John rolled his eyes yet again, "Aren't you going to eat?"

"I told you before, it's completely irrelevant—"

John pulled Sherlock by the sleeve fearing over the contusions, "You have to eat." He spoke angrily; this man was like a kid turned into a bitchy six footer. Scratch that. This man _is_ a kid turned into a bitchy six footer.

+::_::_::_::_::+

People stared at the couple with one being dragged around; Sherlock could hear their snickers and looks at John who was completely unaffected. John pulls him into the cafeteria and forces him onto one seat, "Stay."

If Sherlock knew any better, he could've walked out and leave John lining up for food. But he didn't. Against his every instinct as a sociopath, he stayed—all eyes glancing around him. Whispering their obvious thoughts to one another, he begins to tap unexcitedly on the table… And less than a minute later, a tray was slammed on the table before him, Sherlock looks at the food before him.

Tea and two scones.

"Eat." John mutters as he slips in the opposite seat. His eyes trained viciously at Sherlock.

He shakes his head; this was way too sweet for his taste.

"Do you _want _me to feed you?" John hissed getting the fork.

The laughter got louder and John froze, his eyes clearing in realization. His medical (more like _motherly) _instincts clearly got the better of him, he drops the fork and moves away from the table with a silent apology.

_"Oh my, look—it's Holmes and that cute rugby player… who was he again, oh right, Watson…"_

_ "Holmes' is here?! He's soo hot… if only he wasn't a freakshow."_

_ "Watson's gay?"_

_ "They're soo cute. They must be together… I never knew Watson was with Holmes."_

_ "That's so gross. Holmes and Watson? So that's why Watson broke up with Kayte—poor girl. To be replaced by Holmes."_

Their voices got louder and Sherlock could see John's face turn into a flattering shade of pink. He grabs the scone and the paper cup filled with tea and stands, "Thanks." Sherlock whispers just as he did. He elegantly bites into the scone and walks away, leaving everyone aghast.

John frowns and suddenly a text from an unknown number alerts him, he opens it as he also walks away from the table after drinking the cooled tea in one go, he then reads the text as he heads for his next class.

**Thank you. **

**SH**

SH? Who was—oh. Sherlock Holmes. John's lips had forgotten the frown and smiled, saving the number straight away and replied.

**Anytime. **

**Anyway… How'd you get my number?**

**JW**

Without a minute later…

**I borrowed your phone yesterday.**

**SH**

**I didn't know that.**

**JW**

**You weren't paying attention.**

**SH**

**Ugh. Next time, **_**tell **_**me.**

**JW**

No reply was given by the opposite party… John still texted casually.

**Class' almost starting.**

**See you tomorrow.**

**JW**

**Can't. **

**SH**

That shocked John.

**Why?**

**JW**

**Busy.**

**SH**

**With what?**

**JW**

**An experiment.**

**SH**

**I thought you're in class.**

**SH**

**I am. Just hiding. **

**Aren't you?**

**JW**

**No. **

**Class's boring.**

**SH**

**I'm not surprised.**

**JW**

**Shit. Teacher almost caught me…**

**JW**

**Even through texting you're vocabulary astounds me.**

**SH**

**Thank you?**

**JW**

**It wasn't a compliment.**

**SH**

**I guessed right.**

**JW**

**So, tomorrow's a no go?**

**JW**

**No go?**

**SH**

**I mean, we can't see each other tomorrow.**

**JW**

There was no reply after that and John was forced to recite, he got it correctly though. It wasn't really a hard question; he's not fond of chemistry. So he found it lucky—he looked at his phone. No reply.

**Sherlock?**

**I guessed an answer right. **

**JW**

John remained in class, bored as hell and loosely waiting for his phone to vibrate.

**Next class's about to start.**

**JW**

Silently, he cursed himself for sending a third unanswered text. He was seriously going to desk his face if he wasn't going to get a reply, already in the notion of doing it—his mobile vibrated as the teacher entered. He slyly opened his phone after greeting the teacher. It read:

**Meet me tomorrow, lunch.**

**Same place.**

**Don't reply and focus on the lesson.**

**SH**

Mentally, he smiled and closed his phone following his friend's advice.

+::_::_::_::_::+

Sherlock—as usual—was starting his experiment, his eyes peering through his microscope placed on an old mahogany drawer… then scribbling down notes on his right. His mind also noting the same things. He worked in silence, his mind triumphantly enjoying the results of his experiment, adding liquefied Magnesium—it reacted quickly as a catalyst already forming blue specks underneath the microscope.

"Brilliant." He whispers and leans back into his plastic chair.

The only thing unusual though, was the munching sound coming from across the room. John was sitting on the floor, his legs folded before him and his back against the wall. On his knees was a book and in between his mouth was a jelly sandwich, silence was around them yet it was enjoyable.

"John, for goodness sake—could you keep your chewing to yourself." Sherlock groaned after a few more moments, "It's not working, John—this way of appealing me to eat. It sounds disgusting."

"It was worth a try…" The blond muttered, chewing a bit more noiselessly now at his food with one last bite, "I was actually waiting for you to say something minutes ago. So, are you going to answer my question now."

"What?" Sherlock muttered.

"What are you doing?"

"Prussian Blue." He stated with a smile as he removed his surgical gloves.

John nodded, "Aren't you supposed to be wearing one of those lab coats or something…"

"Boring." Sherlock merely said, "Hand me the test tube rack—it's inside the box, no—on the right."

The older teen sighed and passed the rack to Sherlock, he peered into the microscope and smiled to himself, "This is amazing…" He stated, he watched as the compounds broke and combined in pattern…

"Of course it is," Sherlock muttered fixing up his test tubes inside each hole, "compared to those mind stagnating shows of yours."

John rolled his eyes as he walked away over to the three boxes laid across the empty room, "What are these anyway? How'd you bring them here?"

"I told you—it was for an experiment." Sherlock replied as he pulled on his gloves and was again preparing another concoction of his.

The blond sighed heavily getting his fallen book and resumed his earlier position.

+::_::_::_::_::+

Days went on like that—they continued to work along each other. But Sherlock still avoided John in public, and the older teen was a bit annoyed at that… Only in the empty room was he able to speak with Sherlock. A Sherlock he knew, a Sherlock only _he _knows. It was quite a privilege, to stand beside a person who's mind outranks their very nation's leaders.

But he knows what's behind that cool and composed mask… He knows that Sherlock's just a kid… A spoiled, attention defect, self-renowned sociopath, who's actually an insecure brat with an ego high as Big Ben—it was amusing.

It was already the last semester and it seemed that rumors were spreading—wrong ideas and labeling. John grew a bit anxious about what it did to his reputation, but he didn't really care. He was willing to take the stand and protect the little boy inside Sherlock.

The little boy who loves to play with his toys, trusting no one, small and confused to emotions. Innocent to most of his wrong doings… it was something John was willing to fight for.

Little did he know it was going to get this rough…

+::_::_::_::_::+

Day Three ended up with Sherlock doing another experiment and John forcing food down Sherlock's throat. Just a normal day.

Day Four was the first time John realized how amazing Sherlock's fingers were… They were perfect, heaven sent, and _rude_. Sherlock was playing the violin as John entered—it wasn't a song. It was a wailing person on drugs. John had to scream just so Sherlock would stop… but then, he didn't. He merely paused and re-adjusted his violin against his neck and began playing the soft tunes of God-knows-what.

John spent the whole lunch and missing one subject just listening to Sherlock's violin concert—sleeping half-way through the third symphony. When he woke, Sherlock was smiling—a bright and innocent smile.

Day Five was… well, not counted. Sherlock was busy elsewhere. He was at detention, for calling his teacher a _Serial Adulterer_ after his many deductions. John tried to bail him out—

Day Six was annoying. Sherlock made John run around the whole school by texting him random locations, only to end up panting as he entered his next class—he wasn't able to see Sherlock. But he could almost see that smug smile plastered on his face saying, _'John, you're an Idiot,'_

Well, he was. At times. And when he learned that Sherlock was actually in detention the whole time he added another to his thought. _'Well, I guess you are too.'_

Walking out of his dorm room—Day Seven with the Kid Sherlock Holmes, he called it… The first things he saw were pictures that lined every wall… John knew that this day was truly the worse day of his life… Pictures of him and Sherlock lined over the walls. He walked to them and started tearing them down furiously.

+::_::_::_::_::+

Sherlock's glasz eyes were again shooting daggers as he headed for the walls layered with photoshopped pictures of him _and John_—everything in the world of a fangirl's imagination, his slender fingers grabbed every print out crumpling them. He looked at the people snickering with a curse…

+::_::_::_::_::+

**Sherlock. Did you see the pictures?**

**JW**

**THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.**

**JW**

**Considering I am studying in the same school as you, yes.**

**SH**

**Dammit. What are we going to do?!**

**JW**

**If convenient **

**meet me in the empty room. **

**Now.**

**SH**

**If inconvenient.**

**Come anyway.**

**SH**

**On the way.**

**JW**

+::_::_::_::_::+

John and Sherlock were at the empty room, Sherlock's things gone. The atmosphere hung around them like a suffocating leash… both couldn't speak as they used to. Both of them stood stiffly, Sherlock's back was facing John… The air was heavy, almost thick with tension. It was as if there were knives all about, and all ready to permanently wound them.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Sherlock spoke through the painful stillness, "It was all a lie, a ruse."

"What?" John voiced out breaking out of his own reverie, he slightly flinched at his voice resounding loudly from the walls. It was something he grew used to but now it seemed so…_ strange._

"I mean, all this, is simply made up." Sherlock turned to him with a sneer gesturing the air between them, his eyes revealing deceit and mischievousness, "Testing an experiment with people isn't really amusing as others exhibit it to be. They are predictable, _you_ are _predictable_." John's face grew blank in understanding; Sherlock remained unbelievably passive, "So, Watson, this is our… goodbye. I am truthfully keen on thanking you for being so naïve; it was enough to present me the results I sought."

John searched Sherlock's eyes for anything, anything to tell him that this was the lie. He swallowed hard and licked his lips trying to find his voice, "What are you trying to say then?" He fought for Sherlock, saved him even, and this is the shit he returns.

"Let me refresh your incompetent mind then," he spat the words in return, "I have no friends, I don't need them. And I would hate to have people rubbing off their hazardously low IQ on me, especially _you_."

"May I, for just a second, remind you that I saved you and that stupid brain of yours," John returned the statement with fervor and uncontained resentment as his gestures were making him seem more panicky than he already is, "and you talk to me as if you don't give a fuck about it."

Sherlock simply shrugged and replied evenly, "It was your decision to help me, I wasn't asking for your help."

"What the fuck do you want from me all this time then?!" John was seriously fighting of the urge to go and punch that face, his fists clenched and his nails digging into his palm.

The brunette smirked, "Were you not listening, I already got what I need." There was a flicker beneath those eyes before he continued, "Data."

John froze in defeat and he looked at Sherlock frantically, "Wha—"

Sherlock walked away pulling out his phone, "Goodbye, Watson," he closed the door saying, "It was nice _using _you."

The blond couldn't help but stare blankly to the space were his ex-friend recently stood, he felt unreservedly tattered. He couldn't even bring himself to punch that stupid face…

_"Sherlock's face,"_ he thought aggrievedly, _"was more broken than I am…"_

* * *

**the-science-of-evidence,**

**over & out**


End file.
